


culmination

by TomBowline



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Tozer, M/M, Mutiny Camp, POV Solomon Tozer, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28706505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/pseuds/TomBowline
Summary: Solomon takes what he can get.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Solomon Tozer
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	culmination

“Who’s been here before me, hmm?” Hickey sounded disinterested as he dug his nails into the meat of Solomon’s bare arse, pulling his cheeks apart with a faint damp sound. “Who else’ve you bent over for, Sergeant?”

“Nobody,” Solomon whispered, desperate, flushed with the appealing shame of being laid bare. “Just you.” It was the truth; it had not for many months occurred to him to lie to Hickey, about this or anything else. He had always been the one doing the fucking, a big lad with a big cock, but now— He felt the necessity of being taken by Hickey in a way deeper than he ever had in his years of rutting in the dockside inns; he had grasped through the desperate muddle that was his general sense of purpose at this point and landed at the belief that he was made for this, that this was the inevitable culmination of his life. He was built to receive Hickey’s pleasure; if he only could make good on this task, he felt certain he could face whatever came after with a lightened spirit. A simple solution to a difficult problem; a simple act between two difficult men. 

“Hmm.” Hickey dipped the tip of one finger into him, dry and proprietorial. “Perhaps that’s so. You’re tight enough. But you wanted to, didn’t you.” Tracing his hole with two fingers, insinuating himself slowly into Solomon’s body like a lockpick through a door. “Private Tozer, I can see you. Trotting after any Sergeant who does you a kindness, waiting for him to do you somethin’ more.” A spitting sound, a running-down of lukewarm liquid over Solomon’s hole and down to where his bollocks hung heavy beneath. “Mountin’ the sweet young lads who like the uniform, wishin’ they could see you for more than a ruddy great prick. That right?” 

Hickey’s hand slipped down to give his stones a squeeze - making his hips jolt, making him gasp a shameful sound - before plunging in two wet fingers to the furl of Solomon’s hole. Solomon tried, desperately, to relax against the intrusion; it would get better, he would adjust, he had been told. He tried to focus on the billow and snap of the dull tent-wall before his face, tried to smooth out his mind and pick out the pleasanter parts of the sensation. Even so, it was difficult to bear; the dragging careless thrust, Hickey widening him like he was ripping a hole in a length of canvas. 

“I thought,” Hickey continued, in that same serene tone that brought to mind a captain (a  _ proper _ captain) calling strokes of the cat, “that you must have been getting a length from somewhere.” He bent down, the slight swell of his chest brushing Solomon’s back - the hot bob of his cock leaving smears against Solomon’s arse - and whispered in his ear. “My money was on Heather,” he said, cracking the whip down and letting the blood flow out on the boards. “Great big fellow like that, he must have had something to work with. Had to’ve been a reason you stuck by him after he weren’t worth a damn anymore, as I reckoned it.” Stepping close, inspecting the wound, pulling its edges apart. “Thought you must have been clinging ‘round him in the hopes he’d be able to raise a stand again.”

Solomon almost left right then, almost pushed Hickey off him and retreated to his stinging indignant sorrow, almost— Almost— But Hickey did something to him just then, something in the crook of his fingers that sent a shock of pure shining pleasure through Solomon’s body. And that was Hickey, really, wasn’t it, that was how he was to Sol - he would lead him into such damnable bitterness, and then give him just enough of what was sweet to make it worth staying.

So he stayed. He stayed and let Hickey spit on his arse again, plunge three fingers into him with little care for where they went - excepting the occasional indulgent sweep across that spot - and pull them out again to thumb around the gaping tender hole he had made in the Sergeant. Let Hickey crack a hand across his arse when his cock twitched and blurted fluid from this treatment. “You had better not shoot off too quick,” Hickey drawled, prick branding a hot line between Solomon’s cheeks as he set it there to rut idly. “I won’t stop fucking you just because you’re spent.”

To tell the truth, Sol couldn’t rightly say whether he was on the very verge of spending or whether he would spend at all; his prick felt secondary, unimportant compared to his arsehole. Still, he shook his head and groaned. “I won’t, I won’t,” he pleaded, pushing his arse back against Hickey’s prick, a damp sticking slide. 

“No,” Hickey agreed, and spat one final time - to coat his hand, evidently. Solomon felt the brush of knuckles over his inner thigh, heard the sucking squelch as Hickey slicked himself, and then—

There was a blunt thick thing at his entrance, burning hot and nudging its way in, too fast, too much. Solomon groaned and set his arse back against the breach, trying to make himself slack and biddable for Hickey’s length, and here, it was not so bad now, it was edging from glorious sacrifice into simple glory. Here, here - a hand pressed firm and flat against his back, a grunt as Hickey seated himself fully, a twitching brush of Hickey’s sack against his own. The conviction returned, twice as strong, that he was made to give this.

Hickey rutted into him with his prick the same way he had with his fingers: heedless of Solomon’s pleasure, seeking only his own gratification. Yet there was a sort of pleasure in such treatment, in feeling well-used, in the knowledge that he was giving good enough to make Hickey so single-minded. Not that Solomon got nothing of the more bodily pleasure that came of being fucked; Hickey’s thrusts did not land reliably on that seat of pleasure, but it was often enough to have Sol’s prick twitching and drooling more clear fluid where it hung untouched. 

After several minutes of straightforward stabbing thrusts, a change came about: Hickey’s one hand moved from Solomon’s lower back to grip the back of his neck, holding him down, pressing his face into the makeshift table of crates and canvas upon which he was being had. With his other hand, Hickey squeezed one finger in beside his cock and sought out that spot within Solomon to push against it mercilessly. And this, oh, this was glory. 

He was barely conscious of the rough scrape of canvas against his face, all discomfort driven from his mind by the hot little hand on his neck that was squeezing him like he was an owned thing. Like he didn’t have to worry about what to do, where to go - he would be nudged and gripped and shoved into his right and proper place, and he could trust that it  _ would _ be right and proper. And the other hand, the finger that stretched him to a burning molten-metal glow of pain and rubbed over that spot like it was a stone to be polished. The length of hard hungry flesh still within him, displaced at strange degrees by the intrusion of that finger, somehow only added to the rough-hewn bodily joy of it.

In the mingled pain and pleasure of this onslaught, Sol felt his crisis rushing up with something like panic - he was told, he was ordered not to— He tried to squirm away, reflexively seeking to avoid the inevitable, but Hickey held him fast, and he half-howled his release as his prick spurted off untouched onto the dirty canvas floor. 

Hickey groaned above him and kept right on with short sharp snaps of his hips. He delivered a slap to Solomon’s flank with the hand that had held him down, a shocking crack of a thing that had Sol tensing up (had Hickey growling out another groan upon said tensing, twitching mad and blind within him). “It’s a shame,” he sighed, still sounding almost unaffected but for a slight breathlessness in his tone. “Most times you’re at least able to do as you’re told.”

Solomon felt, appallingly, the beginnings of tears in his eyes as his world narrowed to the drag of Hickey’s cock within him. He felt raw, oversensitive, like he should be curled in tight on himself to lick his wounds; was faced instead with this relentless clawing openness. It engulfed him so completely that he did not know pain from pleasure (though admittedly the line between the two had always been thin and smudgy for him). Everything he felt was simply  _ feeling _ , without name or aspect to discern it. The nails-in grip of Hickey’s hand at the sweaty place where his thigh met his belly, the thrust and retreat of Hickey’s prick to keep him gaping open, the clammy spatter of Hickey’s sweat onto his back - it washed Sol in a rapturous sense of duty, buoyed him up on the glow of being selected for this task at the same time as it mortified him in its drawn-out obscenity. 

When Hickey drove into him once more and flooded his insides with spend, he did it quietly - a little snarl, a punched-out groan, and that was that. Sol had to fight not to groan himself as he felt himself becoming full with the heat of seed; so novel a sensation, so right it should be Hickey’s. 

As he was withdrawn from with a vaguely repellant burbling squelch, as he felt a trail of spend slide thickly down his thigh, Solomon began to feel cold in the absence of Hickey’s skinny furnace of a body pressed atop him. He wished to hide his face for awhile, perhaps curl up and sleep until he no longer ached (with someone beside him to hold, if it were possible, but as it was not he thought no further on it); he settled for lingering a moment longer with limbs hanging useless over the crates.

At the end of this moment, he shifted up onto his elbows and turned to say something to Hickey - “give us a kerchief,” perhaps, something to acknowledge the experience they had just shared without dwelling too much upon the particulars of it - but he was already gone, the tent flapping half-open to let in the knife of Arctic sunshine.


End file.
